


The Hank is Awesome Treatise

by Tangerine



Category: X-Men (Comicverse)
Genre: Best Friends, Comedy of Errors, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Pining, X-Factor (1986) - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-27 18:30:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20050606
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tangerine/pseuds/Tangerine
Summary: Iceman does his very best to make sure Beast knows just how awesome he is.





	The Hank is Awesome Treatise

**Author's Note:**

  * For [snowshus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snowshus/gifts).

> Thanks to nafs for the beta.

"Hey, chum, why so glum?" Bobby says, plopping down on the couch beside Hank. There's a bottle of bourbon on the coffee table, and an empty glass, so he makes a few ice cubes and pours himself a drink. "We've got the original X-Men back together again, and Jeannie's alive. This is a cause for celebration. Cheers!"

Hank, who has his head tipped back on the couch, pinches his nose. "Normally I would be the first one celebrating our good fortune, but to be honest, Bobby, tonight, I am simply not feeling it."

"Why not?" Bobby asks, staring into the glass.

Hank sighs. "Fifteen colleges of variable renown. Fifteen rejections."

"That's bullshit," Bobby says, surprised. Hank is the smartest guy he knows. So smart that half the time Bobby barely knows what he's talking about, but Hank's also the type of guy to take the time to patiently explain what he actually means. Bobby's always appreciated that. Hank doesn't have to.

"My status as a mutant with a public identity poses a problem," Hank says, closing his eyes. He may already be drunk, Bobby thinks, especially if this bottle started off full. "Unfortunately, it appears that very few of my potential colleagues are willing to see the man beneath the beast. There was a petition."

"A petition?" Bobby repeats, bewildered. "About fucking what?"

"The faculty members believe I would jeopardize the reputation of their illustrious school."

"What sort of shitty college were you applying to?" Bobby demands.

"Harvard," Hank replies, and Bobby hands over his drink.

* * *

Together, they finish the bottle.

"Fuck them," Bobby decides. He has his arm flung across Hank's shoulders, and Hank is warm and fuzzy and wonderful. He smells like roses for some reason. Bobby doesn't ask why, and if Hank asks why Bobby's nuzzling him, he's gonna lie anyway. "Fuck Harvard, and fuck Empire State, and fuck…"

"Yale," Hank adds miserably, "and MIT. And Michigan State. And Ohio State. And…"

"Fuck the entire US college system," Bobby says, cutting him off before the list becomes even more depressing. In his head, he has filed all the names away on his own personal shit-list, with Harvard at the top. "They don't deserve you. Years from now, they'll be kicking themselves for not hiring you."

"I appreciate the platitudes, Robert, but…"

"But nothing," Bobby says. "I'm your best friend, and I say you're the most awesomest ever."

Hank snorts. "I wish I could believe that," he says, hands crossed over his belly, eyes half-closed.

"It's true," Bobby says, staring at Hank's face, but Hank's already passed out. Bobby thinks about moving, maybe doing his best-friend duty and herding Hank up to his room, but he's comfortable where he is. Hank really is cozy, like the world's most loquacious pillow, which Bobby knows means chatty. Hank had said that once, describing him, and Bobby had looked it up later, just to be sure it was a compliment. He still isn't sure it was, but he likes the word, and he likes Hank, and yeah.

Bobby closes his eyes, just for a moment. He's out in seconds.

* * *

The next morning Hank seems back to his chipper self. Bobby, meanwhile, is still pissed off on his behalf and starts writing a letter to Harvard on the back of a scrap piece of paper he stole from one of the empty boardrooms in the new X-Factor Headquarters. He borrows a pen from Warren's office.

_Dear Harvard_, he starts then scratches it out. _To Whom It May Concern_, he tries instead, and it looks better than his other option, which is _To The Enormous Assholes Who Didn't Hire My Best Friend Hank_. He's tempted to try the acronym, but TTEAWDHMBFH looks absolutely terrible on paper.

With the greeting out of the way, the first line eludes him for a bit. He chews on the end of the pen.

_Hank is awesome_, Bobby writes eventually. _And let me tell you why_...

He starts at the beginning, with everything he knows about Hank's childhood. His parents love him… still, unconditionally, even though Hank's got the distinction of being a very obvious mutant, so he must have been a great kid. The McCoy family home in Dunfee, Illinois is full of his face on the walls.

Hank is also very good at sports. A jock with brains, which Bobby didn't think was possible after his own experiences in school, but Hank always bucks the trends. He's a trend-setter, and it started way back in high school. Bobby quickly scratches all of this down, just in case he forgets something.

Hank did have a nerdy haircut, Bobby thinks, chewing on his pen again, but it's not worth mentioning.

* * *

Over the next few days, Bobby works on his letter when he can. He's on page three already, and while the prose and the spelling are sloppy, it's only his first draft. He hides it from view whenever the others are around, even Hank. Especially Hank. The others are busy getting the logistics of X-Factor – and the X-Terminators – worked out. Other than making sure the books are in order, Bobby is basically not needed until the furniture comes in and needs assembling. He does a bit of cleaning here and there. 

"Hey," Bobby says over lunch. Hank looks up from his meal. Warren had gone out and returned with hoagies the size of Hank's arms. "What would you say your best quality is? Like... I'm talking top five."

Hank swallows, wiping a smear off mayo off his fur with a napkin. "May I inquire as to why?"

Bobby shrugs. "I found an old issue of Cosmo and I'm doing quizzes for everyone," he lies smoothly.

"Is that honestly the best usage of your time?"

"Hey, I’m caught up with all my accountant stuff. Unless you want me to help with the logistical shit and mess everything up…?"

Hank, despite himself, looks impressed. "Well played, Drake. Very well played."

"Thank you," Bobby says magnanimously. "Now, seriously, top five in no particular order."

"I'm intelligent," Hank says, stating the obvious, but Bobby takes note of it anyway. Hank and smart are pretty much synonymous in his head. "I can also be quite amusing when the situation calls for it."

"You are hilarious, definitely the second funniest mutant after yours truly."

Hank gives him a look, but it's not Bobby's fault that's the way things shook out. Hank can't be the best at absolutely everything. It would be unfair. "I do the right thing, even when the right thing is arduous."

"That's a good one," Bobby tells him.

"I'm inquisitive. If there is a question asked, I work tirelessly until it has been sufficiently answered."

Bobby nods. That's also very true. He's spent hours with Hank, just hanging around in his room while he works on science nerd stuff, watching as Hank pours through mountain of journals and books.

"I'm a good friend," Hank says, after a moment of deliberation, “though you may be the better judge of that.” 

"You definitely are," Bobby assures him, taking one last bite of his sandwich with a flourish. "Thanks, dude," he adds as he balls the wrapping up and tosses it into the garbage can. "You know, for reasons."

"However well-meaning, Bobby, if you are trying to play matchmaker…"

"I'm not," Bobby promises and quickly leaves the room, inspired again and afraid of losing that mojo.

* * *

"What are you working on?" Jean asks, looking over his shoulder.

"Nothing," Bobby says quickly, covering the letter with his arm. He'd lived on his own for all of two weeks and had hated every second of it, but right about now, with prying eyes around every corner, eager to find out what he's doing, he almost misses it. "Jeez, can't a guy get any privacy around here?"

"Never mind then," Jean says peaceably. "Journaling is supposed to be good for the soul."

"Oh my god, I'm not journaling. Come on, who do you take me for? A guy who's good at feelings?"

Jean smiles. "My mistake, Bobby."

Bobby doesn't start writing again – doesn't even think about it, even though Jean's no longer a telepath – until Jean is down the hall, her footsteps slowly fading into silence. When he's sure he's alone, he looks down at the growing stack of paper under his elbow. The letter has spiralled out of control.

It shouldn't be embarrassing – it's just a bunch of poorly spelled words in a stream-of-consciousness jumble – but the initial _To Whom It May Concern_ seems very far away, and he doesn't know if that's a good or bad thing. He's only reached their second year at Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.

He just has a lot of stuff to say about Hank. That's all. They've been friends for a long time.

* * *

He and Hank go out to see a movie, just the two of them. They've been to this theatre before, and other than his usual hat and trench coat, Hank feels comfortable there without hiding his appearance. It's like he doesn't even notice the stares. Bobby, on the other hand, yearns to teach some bastards a lesson.

"Please don't engage in fisticuffs on my behalf," Hank says, paying for their tickets.

"I'll fisticuff my hand in their ignorant faces," Bobby growls, glaring at the latest round of assholes.

"It's not worth it," Hank replies, sounding down again. Bobby stares after the guys anyway. They’re moving quickly, probably responding to the sudden drop in temperature. "I appreciate the valiant defence, but if we do not make haste, I fear we may have to sit in the dreaded front row."

"And I think you're really overestimating the popularity of this movie," Bobby grumbles.

Hank holds the door open for him. "There is no accounting for taste, unfortunately."

They are, as Bobby suspected, the only people there. The movie is entirely in Finnish with English sub-titles, and he can tell within the first five minutes that it is going to be a struggle to stay awake. At least they have a giant buttered popcorn balanced between them, shared because that's how they do it.

It's a bit of a waste, Bobby thinks, slumped in his seat, eyes on the screen, fighting off sleep. This would be the perfect date night: boring movie playing in the background, no one around them, almost total darkness. This is a prime make-out opportunity, and it's being totally wasted. It's a real shame.

"This film is delightful," Hank says, leaning over to whisper to him, warm in his ear.

"Yeah, great," Bobby replies, chancing a glance at Hank, who stares at the screen, enthralled.

He's really good-looking, Bobby thinks, especially with his glasses on. Bobby has already written a few paragraphs about Hank's handsomeness, but staring at him in that dark theatre, he thinks a few more words on the subject wouldn't hurt. After all, Hank deserves it. Bobby's lucky to have Hank in his life.

* * *

The letter grows to nine pages. Bobby adds to it every night before bed, without fail. He rereads it often and writes notes to himself in the margins when he thinks he's forgotten something. Every time he's sure he's managed to capture the essence of Hank's awesomeness, he finds something else.

"I'm not even going to ask," Scott says when he finds Bobby scribbling away in the old records room.

"What are you even doing here?" Bobby asks, annoyed his new hiding spot has been so quickly discovered. If you ignore the clear evidence of rats, Bobby likes it down there in the basement, among all the dusty, forgotten boxes and one very large desk tucked away in the back. "This is my spot."

Scott sighs deeply, the sort of noise only Bobby is capable of getting from him. "I needed some air."

"Well, there's none down here," Bobby tells him. "It actually smells kinda weird."

"Then you probably shouldn't be here," Scott says, and Bobby opens his mouth to argue, but then something large and brown goes scurrying across the floor. They have fearlessly faced down Magneto and the Sentinels together, but that one unwanted guest has them both scrambling out of the room.

"Shit," Bobby says, clutching his letter to his chest. Scott pats his back like they just won the fight.

So, yeah, his new hiding place is short-lived, but he got another paragraph added about Hank's interest in boring topics – like how enterokinase is triggered in the intestinal tract. Bobby still has no idea what the fuck that means, but Hank thought it was important enough to mention, so it must be pretty cool.

* * *

Later that night, Bobby has the presence of mind to ask what enterokinase actually is.

Hank lights up. The last time they talked about it, they'd been leaving Warren's place in Colorado, about to embark on their new adult lives. It feels like a long time ago, even though it's barely been a month. "It's an enzyme produced by the duodena of both humans and animals that aids in digestion."

"Wow," Bobby says. "That sure is something."

Hank launches into a lecture that involves the word zymogen. Bobby nods and hums and makes noises at the appropriate times. He's only half-following – and he thinks about scratching out his earlier paragraph, because this isn't cool at all – but he can't keep his eyes off Hank's face. He's always so animated when he's discussing something he's passionate about. It's one of the best things about him.

Hank talks for almost an hour, gesturing wildly, happily, and Bobby barely notices the time pass.

* * *

"Hey," Bobby says to Warren, who is in the middle of painting the main boardroom. Bobby had offered to help, but Warren had been determined to do it on his own. "Can you do me a favour? The next time you see Hank, give him a hug and tell me how it feels. Like, in detail."

Warren stops mid-brush-stroke. "Why?" he asks. He has paint all over his face. It's a little funny.

"I just need to know, and it'd be weird if I asked him."

"It'll be weird if _I_ ask him," Warren says, scratching his cheek and smearing more paint.

"Remember that time you swore you were done being a superhero and then recruited me for a team two weeks later, forcing me to disappoint my parents and give up my burgeoning accounting career?"

Warren sighs. "Fine."

"Don't hug Hank until you've showered," Bobby adds. "You're covered in paint, dude. Amateur."

Warren sighs again. "I knew I should have hired someone."

Bobby doesn't disagree, but they're trying to pull off a big secret. When Bobby's not writing, he's doing what he can to make the X-Factor Complex habitable. The kitchen stuff arrived two days ago, and he’s put together so many chairs and packed away so many plates and utensils. 

If this works, if every awesome idea they have comes to fruition... it'll be good. It'll be really good, and they'll have something to be proud of.

* * *

Later that night, while Bobby is chomping through a plate of spaghetti, Hank sits down beside him.

"Edna's meatballs are stellar as usual," Bobby tells him. "Your mom is the best."

"I concur," Hank says. "Now, Robert, if I may ask a question? Earlier today, I was approached by Warren, who informed me that you had tried to blackmail him into bestowing a hug upon my person."

Bobby scowls. "It wasn't blackmail. It was a favour."

"May I ask what series of events led to this?"

"Can't a guy just ask for a hug from his best friend vicariously through another dude?"

Hank looks at him like he's an idiot, and Bobby kinda feels like one. He should have just told Hank what he was doing from the beginning, to cheer him up, but now he has fifteen pages of a letter he'll probably never send, and it feels... weird. He made it weird. Bobby always makes it so fucking weird.

Bobby opens his mouth to say something to that effect – Hank knows him and will forgive him, even when he's being a loser – but then Hank's hugging him, all nice and tight, pulling him flush against his chest. He's warm and soft and not nearly as squishy as Bobby was expecting. They've hugged before, one-armed dude hugs or brief goodbye-see-you-soon hugs, but never like this, fully body and long.

"Good?" Hank asks, rumbling hot in Bobby's ear.

"Good," Bobby says and smiles into Hank's fur.

* * *

Emboldened after their hug – Hank is a seriously great hugger, and Bobby's mad about the Harvard thing all over again – Bobby returns to writing his letter in earnest. One afternoon, as he and Hank work to put together some cots for any potential young mutants they might rescue as the X-Terminators, Bobby asks, "hey, what's the best word for a thing someone writes about something else?"

"If you could be more specific," Hank says, turning the page of instructions over. If Hank can't make any sense of them, Bobby's a lost cause, so he's basically just winging it, much to Hank's irritation.

"Like, you feel really passionately about something and you write it down for other people to read."

"In what context?"

"To let someone know how totally wrong they are," Bobby says carefully, "in a lot of words."

"Announcement? Proclamation? Declaration? Treatise? Publication?"

"Which is your favourite?"

"I've always been partial to a good treatise."

They were all good words, big words, smart words, and Bobby thinks about it for the rest of the afternoon, putting together so many bed frames that his fingers begin to hurt. He thinks about it through dinner, he and Hank ordering a pizza because the others ate without them. He thinks about it in bed that night, staring up at the ceiling, and he thinks, _Hank is so awesome. Why would anyone not want him?_

It baffles the mind. Bobby just doesn't get it. He goes with treatise.

* * *

"How are you in bed?" Bobby asks one morning, over a cup of steaming coffee.

"I've never received any complaints?" Hank says it like it's a question, not a statement. Bobby looks up at him, making sure he's not angry about it, but he just looks tired. They were up all night with Scott, Jean and Warren, putting the final touches on everything. "How are _you_ in bed, Frostbite?"

"Fine," Bobby says. "Nothing to write home about."

"I see," Hank replies, still staring at him, and Bobby feels his face heat a little, inexplicably.

That night, Bobby tries to expand upon Hank's answer. Hank is probably pretty good in bed. He knows all the biology about everything the human body does, so Bobby assumes that includes the pleasurable shit, too. He's probably fantastic in bed and just being modest about it. Bobby spends half an hour trying to fit it into his treatise before admitting that it just doesn't make any sense to add it in.

It didn't make any sense to even ask it.

Bobby stares down at the paper and thinks, maybe, finally, he has nothing left to say.

Hank is awesome. What more is there?

* * *

Bobby sits on his letter for a full day, then finally reads it all the way through, from beginning to end, a heavy feeling in stomach growing with every word. It's nineteen hand-written pages long, and it's... he's not quite sure what it is. Maybe it's a treatise, but maybe it's not that at all. Bobby doesn't know.

He's not sending it to Harvard, he's sure of that. This... whatever it is... would not get Hank hired.

But it also seems like a waste to spend all this time writing it and then not sending it. Especially when Hank gets this look on his face sometimes that reminds Bobby of that night they got drunk together. The idea that Hank doesn't know how awesome he is really bothers him. Hank deserves better.

Bobby folds up his letter and shoves it into an envelope. He writes Hank's name on the front.

He sticks it under Hank's door and wanders back to his room.

* * *

Bobby is lying in bed, almost asleep, when his brain thinks, _wow, that was extremely gay, dude_.

And just like that, Bobby is wide awake and sitting up, heart racing, skin clammy with sweat. Bobby's been very careful about his own feelings, keeping them neat and tidy, locked away in a secret part of his brain. If Hank gets the wrong idea... Bobby drags his hand down his face, swearing at himself.

He tugs on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt and leaves the room barefoot. He pads down the hallway and stops outside Hank's door. First, he tries to slide his fingers under it, to see if he can feel the envelope, but it's no dice. He's brainstorming about how he could use his powers when the door opens.

"Bobby," Hank says, wearing only glasses and a pair of polka-dot shorts.

"Hank," Bobby replies, looking down at the letter in his hand. He's on the last page. "I can explain."

"By all means," Hank says and invites him in.

* * *

"May I ask what this is?" Hank asks, once they're seated on his bed. "And why it even exists?"

Bobby groans. "I just wanted to tell Harvard how terrible they were for rejecting you, and then I just... really got into writing it. Like, dude, I have spent hours, possibly days, on that treatise. But I'm smart enough to know if I sent it, I would kill your career. And it just seemed like a waste, after all that work, not to give it to you. But as of about five minutes ago, I think it might just look like a love letter."

"It certainly reads that way," Hank says gently.

Bobby looks down at his hands. "You were never supposed to know," he whispers.

"Is it so unspeakable that I do?"

"I won't make it weird," Bobby vows, wishing Hank would hug him again. He felt really safe and good and normal when Hank was hugging him. He glances up, and Hank puts a hand on his face, a thumb smoothing softly over Bobby's lips. "What are you doing?" he asks, voice embarrassingly rough.

"If you will not make it weird then I suppose the responsibility falls to me."

Bobby opens his mouth, the _what_ hanging on his lips, followed closely by the fear that Hank's pranking him somehow, but then Hank kisses him. It's gentle at first, almost chaste. _Oh_, Bobby thinks in disappointment, _I guess we're doomed to just be best friends_, and then suddenly the whole thing goes sideways in the very best way. Hank's hand, huge and fluffy, grips the back of his head and changes the angle. Bobby surges against him, pressing a hand to Hank's very hairy chest and gripping him there.

* * *

They kiss for a long time in Hank's bed, wrapped up in each other. Bobby's painfully hard and, thank god, so is Hank, but he's exhausted from all that writing, and he doesn't think he's up for anything more than making out like teenagers. It's actually a bit of a waste, he thinks, that they didn't make out when they were.

But Bobby needed time. Time that Hank's been able to give. He's been the best fucking friend ever.

"You're awesome," Bobby says, pausing to take a breath. "In case you didn't know. You're amazing."

"The feeling is mutual," Hank assures him. "In case _you_ didn't know."

Bobby smiles at him, and Hank kisses him again. Bobby regrets one omission from his letter: Hank is a very good kisser. If Bobby had known, he definitely would have added it to the treatise.

If Bobby had already known, he probably wouldn't have had to write it in the first place.


End file.
